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You Must Remember This She has a long, imperfect, memory. But then, we all press roses sans the dung, and she remembers with delight that he, now prematurely gray and dead, had sung Le Marseilles, off key as Laszlo did, so tenderly, in Rick's café "But Victor Laszlo didn't sing -- he lead the orchestra," you say. Yes, but remember that she has a long, imperfect, memory He once threw lilacs on their bed. But yet there was a cloud of rhetoric so thick and dank above his head she had to duck or be sucked dry. She has eliminated all of that from reverie She has a long, imperfect memory, but, then, we all seem to recall just the refrain -- or sometimes just one note caught in amaze And when he left, she came to savor dread and half her soul went cold as Winnipeg She thawed, but tithed, by cutting off the bitter parts to cull the residue into an afterglow She has a long imperfect memory, but then the crocus is the only thing we see across the snow So now she lives with phantom joy and very little phantom misery to feed her bones This is a sort of being alive done cleverly, and after all she has her long, imperfect memories to keep her dry |
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